


Threat Level

by travellinghopefully



Series: Jamie and Malcolm [7]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Affection, Angst, Bomb, Explosion, Fluff, Injury, Love, M/M, care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Jamie and Malcolm's anniversary - M15 has warned of possible terrorist activity</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threat Level

Fucking Chequers. 

Another fucking wasted weekend.

30 minutes in the helicopter. 

1000 acres. 

12 staff. 

Chef always better than whatever Tom’s wife planned to incinerate. 

10 bedrooms. 

None of them with Jamie in. 

Due home Sunday night, a few hours stolen away from everything for both of them.

Fucking MP. 

Was it truly that hard to tell the difference between snapchat and instagram? Truly? Limp, flaccid and surrounded by paisley, not what he had planned, not something that could be unseen. Fuck, he wasn’t sure he could think of a way to spin this, she had been 17, not daft, neither were her parents. He couldn’t think of a single box of wrong that this didn’t tick. He fantasised for a few minutes between the last pot of coffee and watching the next one drip that impaling heads on spikes and displaying them on Tower Bridge could and should be a thing – it didn’t need to be the one with eyes and a nose, the piece of human excrement obviously didn’t think with that one – and if he had his way he would never be using the other again. 

Fuck. 

Monday, home far too late. Crawling into bed, unconscious before Jamie had pressed up against him, before his arms had wrapped round him, before his mouth had pressed soft kisses behind his ear, before he heard the words.

Too early.

Always too early.

Never enough time.

Never enough time for them.

He pressed a chaste kiss to the tousled head. Listened to the muffled swearing. 

“Aye, happy anniversary love.”

He tucked the poem into Jamie’s outstretched hand. Still smiling after all this time. What happened when you put someone else in charge for the day. They’d both picked the same poem “If wishes were kisses”, somehow the celebrant ended up with the other version. They’d both interrupted, they recited it together, they kissed, there might have been applause. There might not have been a dry eye in the house. Their own eyes may have shone. Their mothers’ had beamed at each other.

Their one

I know  
(I know)   
kisses don't grow on trees  
but somehow

waiting on a bus  
something comes over us  
and I lean against the tree and you  
lean into me and

(like being granted wishes)   
there is nothing but  
kisses & kisses 

Donall Dempsey

The other one

If wishes were kisses  
And kisses were songs,  
I'd sing for you melodies  
Vibrant and long.  
Through crashing crescendos  
And moments of grace...  
Composing such music  
I see in your face.

Magical, mystical  
Harmonies sweet...  
Possessing, expressing  
Our souls' tender need.  
Time would stand still  
For our chorus again.  
Beautiful notes  
In a song without end.

Jamie woke enough to join him in the shower, not enough time for anything more than a fumble and a few long, needy kisses, promises of more later, much, much more.

There were roses on his pillow as he hurried to dress – a card, with a copy of the poem in too, more too hurried kisses, groans of frustration, the sound of the car outside.

Sitting through the M15 Security briefing, mostly working through the stack of papers he had with him, otherwise nothing would get done and he would never get home. If there was no other day in the year when he went home at 5, this was it.

Remain alert. Report anything suspicious. They gave the hot line number. 

He presumed they had managed to alter it from the local kebab shop.

Home grown terrorism, international terrorism, did air miles equate to more ethical terrorism.

The threat level is set by the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre and is based on the latest intelligence and the perceived capabilities of the relevant terrorist organisations.

Malcolm didn’t voice that they were as well rolling a die.

Low – unlikely  
Moderate – possible but not likely  
Substantial – Strongly possible  
Severe – high likely  
Critical – attack imminent

They were hovering around severe. They were generally hovering around severe. He couldn’t see how it altered anything in any way. There was a very detailed report on all the incidents that had been thwarted. Stopping things that hadn’t happened, he was never quite sure whether they were justifying their inordinate expenditure, but he’d always leaned towards spending on health and education, rather than the military. Probably why he wasn’t a policy advisor.

In between every other thing, the constant texts, the emails scrolling past faster than Usain Bolt, the papers that probably represented the last rainforest tree (and yes he knew the paper was from somewhere sustainable in Norway that hadn’t succumbed to acid fucking rain) somewhere in between all of that he created an alternative threat scale. Did they or did they not cancel their hair appointment? Unless you were Baldy, then threat levels were measured in biscuit hoarding, possible panic buying, even going to the supermarket himself (this had never to his knowledge happened) a far more reliable indicator. Everyone smiled politely, shook hands and pencilled in exactly the same meeting for the same time to say the same things the following week.

Remember, anything suspicious.

For fuck’s sake, back to DoSac – another uncontrolled shitstorm. Was someone deliberately feeding them the mental equivalent of laxative?

 

Texted Jamie, lagging behind, dragged into something pointless. 

Text Malcolm to Jamie  
DoSac then lunch?   
Mx 

Text Jamie to Malcolm  
Maybe fuck it all and take the afternoon off?  
Jx

Text Malcolm to Jamie  
Too many words. Just fuck?  
Mxxx

 

BOOM

 

Stuck in a fucking press briefing.

The initial shock wave can cause substantial damage.

Don’t let him fucking die. Not today.

There is a strong shattering effect.

Don’t let him fucking die. Not today.

The initial blast wave inflicts the most damage – when it reaches a structure or person, they will feel the force of the blast, it will cause damage, shockwaves will pass through organs and tissues.

Don’t let him fucking die. Not today.

Fragmentation. Materials within the bomb and its casing are thrown out violently, when the fragments strike buildings: concrete, masonry, glass and even people – the materials may fragment further...

He threw up. People looked at him.

....causing more damage.

Don’t let him fucking die. Not today.

Fireball, high temperatures, burns, secondary fires or explosions. Acrid smoke choking blind tears billowing outwards thunder reverberating every house and car alarm deaf sirens blue lights uniforms incandescent sheet of flame pressure blast high velocity compression

Stood fell, tried to stand again. 

Glass, glass fucking everywhere. 

Arm

 

Don’t let the fucker be proved right, always said he would outlive him, showed him his fucking will. What fucking cunt showed their lover that, their husband that? He didn’t give a fuck if he was taken care of, there was nothing without him.

People fucking everywhere, everyone in the fucking way. No tube, no buses, no taxis. He would fucking crawl if he had to.

An old lady (if he was still a priest, still trying to be a priest, he would petition for her to be canonised, not dead...but still), she gave him her hanky, and a bottle of water, nothing had ever tasted sweeter.

Couldn’t get news, couldn’t get any news, everything shut down. Finally found where worst case were at. Praying not to be shown to the morgue.

 

“Are you related?” 

Held his wrist tightly with his other hand, arm across his body. The extent of the break he would realise much later, he didn’t give a fuck about himself, he just wanted to find Malcolm. He knew it was fucking bad. Trying to be calm, trying not to pick the fucker up by the throat, trying not to rip his poxy clip board out of his fucking hands and find the fucking name himself.

“He’s my husband.”

“I’m his husband.”

Somewhere out of the corner of his eye, he could see the slimy cunt Ollie – how did the poxbridge cunt not have a mark on him. Seeing the graceless fuck there, standing where Malcolm should be. Fuck. Shiny suit, greasy hair, fiddling with his glasses, speaking to every reporter, getting his ugly fucking face infront of every camera. Some one had to do it, but no one had to right now. Oh well, shit always floats, or some such fucking useless fucking metaphor. The urge to walk over and head butt the cunt live on air was almost enough to make him smile, just for a moment. He didn’t want the cunt profiting from anyone’s suffering or loss, he wanted him howling at the moon, he wanted his clothes rent, he wanted him covered with blood, not knowing if it was other peoples or his, if he didn’t pretend otherwise, it was his face he would have chosen to see buried under concrete, not Malc’s.

“Look he’s my whole fucking world, just tell me where he is? Right?”

The official became more human, more believing. How many reporters had tried on any story to get further into the hospital and clog up the unenviable process of trying against the odds to save lives. Lives that were already gone.

Arriving at ICU, the nurse handed him his ring, told him to wait, the consultant would be with him in a few minutes, if he’d just take a seat.

He thought his world had ended. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he clutched the ring so hard he cut into his palm. He remembered choosing them together, he remembered having them inscribed, he remembered Malcolm whispering to him in the ceremony he would never take it off. He was close to howling. He put it on his own finger, damn skinny fuck, would only fit on the smallest, and then it didn’t, not really. He took it off again, holding it up, looking at the Gaelic. They’d chosen different inscriptions. They both stubbornly refused to tell each other what they had chosen ‘til the day, saying the words to each other as part of their vows. Him, cuisle mo chroi amhrán m’ anama solas mo oíche, Malcolm – Tá tu mo chroi mo anam, mo ghrá agus mo shaol. Igconá agus go deo. Later, much later that night, they’d argued over Irish and Scottish, they hadn’t finished the argument, they realised there were far, far better things to do. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. 

The consultant had sat down next to him. He’d missed his greetings, his first words. The man put his hand on his shoulder, it took all he had not to punch him. He was talking about primary injuries. He stopped him.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You need to be prepared.” His hand moving towards his arm again.

Prepared...he didn’t understand....Malcolm was dead, what did he have to prepare for, there wasn’t anything now...not without him. He went to stand, everything began to spin, black spots danced in his vision, sweat soaked him. He clattered back into the chair – the man pressed his head down, telling him to breathe, someone brought a cup of water, a cool cloth placed on the back of his neck. Acid filled his mouth again, food long since gone, he retched and retched, he was sobbing without thought, heedless of anything save his overwhelming grief.

30 minutes. It took them 30 minutes to convince him, to get him to listen to them. 

He wasn’t dead. 

He might die.

It was touch and go.

“Just fucking let me see him.”

Trying to make him calm down. Facing down security and a syringe filled with fuck knows what. He pulled himself together. He wasn’t helping. 

He sat down, he listened.

He just wanted to see him – crushing the ring into his hand, holding onto the pain, holding onto the ghost of a chance. He would take any outcome, just don’t let him die.

Primary injuries  
Ears lungs hollow organs of the gastrointestinal tract  
Injuries may present after a delay of hours or even days  
Characterised by the absence of external injuries, internal injuries can be unrecognised and underestimated  
Blast lung severe pulmonary contusion bleeding swelling with damage to alveoli and blood vessels. It is the most common cause of DEATH among people who initially survive an explosion  
Secondary injuries

Fuck the man hadn’t he told him enough, he got it, Malcolm could still fucking die

Penetrating trauma with visible bleeding. 

At times propelled objects may become embedded in the body obstructing the loss of blood to the outside, there may be extensive blood loss within the body cavities  
Victims (never let Malcolm hear that word), victims thrown against solid objects, bone fractures  
Flash burns   
crush injuries  
respiratory injuries  
psychiatric injury 

He stopped him there – his mind, they could deal with that later, he had been patient, he had listened, he needed to be with him, touch him, talk to him. Tell him how fucking much he fucking loved him. Don’t let him fucking die. Not today. Never.

The man just wouldn’t let him go.

“I need you to know, we’ll do everything, but sometimes, even in ICU, even with constant monitoring, sometimes, there is nothing that we can do.” He squeezed his shoulder again and looked empathetic. He didn’t disembowel him, he needed him, he needed him to keep Malcolm alive. 

Don’t let him fucking die.

He didn’t listen. He willed time to pass. He willed the man to stop talking. All the accretion of words that he didn’t hear now, haunted him in his dreams, in his nightmares, for weeks, for months, for fucking years. Everything he heard, he saw, over and over and over again. Knowing he wasn’t dead, feeling the warmth of him against him, the weight of him over him, the smell of him around him and watching him die in his head. Waking screaming, sweating, crying, Malcolm cradling him, soothing him, holding him, kissing him, whispering to him, words of nonsense of Gaelic, ‘til his heart stopped hammering in his chest, ‘til he could breathe without great shuddering gasps.

He should have been fucking there, he should have been fucking with him, he should have been able to protect him to shield him.

When he asked him to repeat again that he was alive, the way the consultant had said yes had given him such pause. Such a doubtful yes, a yes pregnant with the possibility of so many no’s.

Days passed. He looked so small, so fragile, tubes and wires and bags and dressings. Eyes swollen shut. Machine to breathe. So still, so quiet. The fury, the maelstrom, reduced to this. 

Jamie didn’t, wouldn’t leave his side. Talking to him. Stroking whatever skin he could reach, that he thought he could touch without hurting him. Enough days for him to think he wouldn’t die. Too many days and he thought he wouldn’t wake up. This would be it, limbo. No heaven, no hell, trapped here, no remission of sins, no salvation, an endless nothing.

Words about brain injuries returning to haunt him. Begging him to come back to him, begging him to wake up. Begging him to fucking bollock him. Begging, pleading, praying.

Why had he had to throw himself over Nicola, protecting her? No one needed Nicola, the world would be just fine without her. When did Malcolm decide he had to be a fucking hero?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Leaving hospital, telling them exactly where they could stick the wheelchair and how, as well as being very polite to the nurses and ensuring flowers and chocolates for everyone.

Arm wrapped tightly round him, truth be fucking told, fucking holding him upright, fucker always had an over inflated sense of his own physical abilities. They could argue that and anything else they wanted, later, the luxury of the word. 

Later.

He savoured it, replaying it. 

Failing to notice they were walking into a phalanx of reporters, cameras. Malcolm didn’t swing him round, didn’t drag them back inside, didn’t duck. He walked forward, keeping Jamie’s arm round him, his hand over his. 

He spoke, briefly, eloquently.

Cliches, littered with gold.

“Lucky to be alive.” That was a given

“Very grateful to the outstanding care given to me by all the NHS staff of this fine hospital.” – Let the fuckers accuse him of having gone private. Jamie would have flown in specialists from the moon if it had guaranteed Malc’s well being, if it might have made a difference, fucking principles be fucking damned.

“Luckier still to have my husband safe and with me.”

Jamie and he were in the waiting taxi before Jamie considered fainting.

“Close your mouth aye, love? ....Could you maybe hold me a wee bit less tight?”.....

Malcolm repeated himself several times before Jamie came back to himself – for Jamie to let out the sob he’d been holding onto from the first moment he’d been certain he was dead. Buried his face against his chest, let him run his fingers through his hair, let him cry himself out, holding him in the taxi long since having arrived at their front door.

The driver waved away their money.

“Least I can do guvs!!”

If it bleeds it leads....for nearly a week there was something or other about them in all the papers, over the internet, “Gay power couple”...and other shite....Malcolm said it was next weeks chip paper (not that chips came wrapped in newsprint anymore – didn’t taste right either, probably cooked in vegetable oil rather than proper fucking dripping, and no fucking good without fucking salt either). Whatever Malcolm said Jamie kept a scrapbook – of everything, every story Malcolm had ever written, every grainy photo he was in the background of, he kept them all...he’d pressed the flowers, their buttonholes, yes, he was a sentimental fuck.

Thinking all they needed to do was get him home....they almost abandoned getting him upstairs, apparently they insisted in keeping you in hospital for a reason. Being able to navigate stairs a crucial component. Jamie solved the matter by sweeping Malcolm off his feet into his arms, nearly concussing him on the banister admittedly, but the stairs were conquered, he was home, he was in his own bed. Their bed. 

Jamie cried again. 

He hadn’t really been home. Camping out at Malcolm’s bedside for the duration. Only shuffling home when supplies were critical, and a shower was a social necessity.

Their anniversary cards were still on their pillows, the covers still pulled back, the notes to each other, the roses wilted. Fuck he was going to cry again. Malcolm wrapped his arms round him, buried his face against his throat, murmured words, rubbed his back, rocked him gently until they were both together enough for a mug of tea.

“No fucking milk!”

“GO AND FUCKING SHOP THEN! AND DON’T FORGET THE FUCKING CURLY WURLYS.”

Malcolm may have considered it was a good idea to get out of his clothes, find an old tee, some clean boxers and climb into bed. He abandoned all attempts when the first stitch pulled. He had been hospital a fucking month. He felt no better than a pile of shite.

He sat on the edge of the bed, he would have lain back, but then he would have to get up again, and realistically, lying down and getting up again wasn’t going to happen, whatever he imagined.

He heard the front door, he heard Jamie’s heavy treads on the stairs. 

Jamie came in the room, he sat next to Malcolm. He placed his palms either side of Malcolm’s face, brushed his thumb over his nose, over his lips, over his chin, leaned in and kissed him. Kissed him ‘til Malcolm had to pull away for lack of breath, ‘til they rested their foreheads touching, their arms shakily round each other, both crying, ‘til they called each other, “great greetin Jessies.” They weren’t sure who said “fuck off” first, or who demanded to know “who are you calling a Jessie?” They laughed, as much as Malcolm could, arm holding his ribs, holding his stomach, the reality of the injuries still far, far too real. 

They were beneficiaries of Julius’ largesse, until they had to beg him to stop, it wasn’t so much the Fortnum and Mason van ostentatiously rolling to a stop at their front door, it was they simply couldn’t eat, cook, freeze the quantity of food he was having delivered (they might have if it was Malcolm doing the cooking, Jamie could do 5 ways for mince (and that was a stretch with a broken fucking arm) and much as Malcolm protested he was just about up to sitting and peeling a carrot and nothing more – he tried to chop something when Jamie wasn’t looking, the pain of pressing down just once astonished him, he made sure Jamie didn’t see, didn’t know, let him think he was being a compliant convalescent. Jamie wisely knew all and said nothing.

The flowers, Jamie reached an agreement, the florists would drop off the cards, the flowers would go to every home, every hospice, every hospital in a 10 mile radius that was on their run, give them to someone who wasn’t getting any.

Jamie was astonished that it took 2 weeks before Malcolm began to pace like a trapped animal. Frustrated by fucking everything.

Jamie checked with the consultant. He didn’t talk to Malcolm, Malcolm would never agree. He found the relevant paper work, he made the calls, anything he couldn’t handle, he let Julius deal with. It was Julius who had finally snapped and punched Ollie. Jamie had to hand it to the photographers, they had captured the moment perfectly, his nose exploding, the spray of blood – the only thing he was sorry about was he hadn’t been there to hear the sound. Ollie the slimy, smarmy, sanctimonious, opinionated cunt. He’d find him one dark night, stalk him, walk up behind him, make sure he knew that what he’d done, what he’d said, he would never forget. Leave it like that, let Ollie live his miserable fucking excuse for a fucking life looking over his shoulder, never knowing. He had far more important things to do now.

Italy. Isolated. Warm. Luxurious. Them and nothing else. No telephone. Julius knew where they were, no one else. The honeymoon that they had never had. The holidays that they had never taken. Sick leave and so much accumulated actual leave that they could stay a year and still not touch their savings. Jamie thought he would manage to get him to stay for a month, two at most. Somehow it stretched to six. Malcolm had fretted, he’d been anxious, thoughts of the consultant’s words haunted Jamie. He didn’t say anything, Malcolm didn’t say anything, they tip toed round each other, the pair of them ridiculously careful. Month two and Jamie cracked, he found himself shouting, raging at Malcolm. Malcolm breaking and crying. Holding him, kissing him, shushing him. He’d struggled free from his embrace, saying he didn’t understand, he’d promised him, and he was inconsolable and Jamie couldn’t make sense of it. Trying to pick out the words between the sobs. 

“Your ring, I took your ring off, I lost your ring.”

There wasn’t a finger he’d been able to keep it on, he wore it on a chain round his neck, as close to his heart as he could. He hadn’t given it a thought once they’d left the hospital. His talisman throughout, held close, rubbed through his fingers over and over, words of prayer, the inscription, Malcolm’s name, repeated, blended, over and over and not a thought since.

He lifted the chain over his head, he unthreaded the ring, he took Malcolm’s hand, slid the ring where it belonged.

He said the words.

He kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> As always - I love feedback
> 
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> Thank you for reading
> 
> The inscriptions translate as - "pulse of my heart, song of my soul, light of my night" and "you are my heart, my soul, my love and my life. Always and forever."


End file.
